


Wistful

by Anonymous



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternia is a really unpleasant world, Community: homesmut, Hope spot, Insults as a form of affection, Pesterlog, Vague Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 22:14:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortfic based on the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, originals posted on Homesmut.</p><p>In which Karkat loves the rain, and Signless loves the people around him, and the universe occasionally lets up on being a completely relentless hellhole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chrysalism | Karkat/Sollux

**Author's Note:**

> chrysalism
> 
> n. the amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm, listening to waves of rain pattering against the roof like an argument upstairs, whose muffled words are unintelligible but whose crackling release of built-up tension you understand perfectly.

You're in the middle of yet another furiously typed battle with Sollux (and getting nowhere fast with the lispy freak) when it starts; first a rumble across the darkened sky, then a gentle spatter of rain against your window. Thunderstorms in this part of Alternia, closer to the desert than the sea, are rare; the weather tends more towards the horrendously warm and dry. That's why you set up here, after all. It's a poor area, for lowbloods only, and you're less likely to end up upsetting any higher-bloods, which is a great long-term survival strategy if you can keep it up. Even though, technically, everyone is higher-blooded than you, even the other red-bloods. The dry, harsh air is also one of the reasons your lusus is so grouchy all the time, but you can't risk living anywhere close to the seadwellers even for him. He understands it, and sometimes he accepts it, but he doesn't like it much.

Speaking of lusii, as the rain starts to pour, you hear the distinctive sound of the back door opening and slamming; he'll be out as long as the rain lasts, and you relax a little. You know he's done his best to keep you alive, and you are grateful, but he can be a real pain in the posterior regions sometimes. Not all the time, by any means, but quite a lot of of it, and as you get older it gets worse; now you are old enough to get yourself into some serious trouble if you aren't careful, and also old enough to feel vaguely resentful at being wrapped up in cotton wool.

You half-heartedly turn back to your conversation, but the rain keeps falling in hypnotic patterns, muffling any sound that isn't you or the storm, and it's hard to maintain your bickering.

\--  
tA: hey KK.  
tA: ii2 iit raiiniing near you two?  
tA: you havent compared me two a biiologiical functiion for a whiile now.  
tA: iim 2tartiing two feel offended by your lack of iinsults, youre not even tryiing any more.  
tA: hey bulgemunch.  
tA: KK.  
cG: WHAT  
cG: HAS IT EVER, GONE THROUGH YOUR MUTANT AND ADDLED BRAIN THAT I AM, IN FACT, NOT YOUR PERSONAL ENTERTAINMENT  
cG: I MIGHT, PERHAPS, BE BUSY WITH OTHER THINGS  
cG: IMPORTANT THINGS  
cG: WELL?  
tA: well no.  
tA: becau2e iit2 you.  
tA: but anyway, enjoy the raiin.  
tA: iill probably 2tiill be up when iit blow2 over.  
tA: but iif iim not, ye2 kk we are 2tiill friiend2.

\--

You regard your husktop, momentarily recalled from your lulled state by a complex tangle of feelings. Clearly, Sollux knows you too well. One of these days, you will have to sit down and analyse exactly what he means to you, and whether or not it's the kind of knowledge that might, one day, be a weapon used against you, and if you could live with the inevitable disgust if you reveal your blood to him.. Or maybe you can just wait till the end of the world. That sounds good too. You are not good with feelings unless they are rage and self-disgust.

You push backward from the desk and your grubtop, and your faithful wheeled seat carries you over to the window. You put your arms on the sill of your window, and close your eyes. The rain is still pouring down, heedless of your blood colour or whether you deserve to live. You let it dissolve your thoughts, let the thunder rumble angrily in your stead, and just sit, quietly, thinking of nothing.


	2. Anthrodynia | Signless/Disciple/Ψiioniic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anthrodynia
> 
> n. a state of exhaustion with how shitty people can be to each other, typically causing a countervailing sense of affection for things that are sincere but not judgmental, are unabashedly joyful, or just are.

The Signless sighs, heavily, and hopes his audience didn't hear it. He's in a town again, standing on the edge of a fountain long cut off from water for being on the lowblood side of town, and as he speaks of injustice and misery, he can see it mirrored on the faces all around him. The kid over there, with the arm hanging in a way that suggests it was broken once and set wrong; an arm that will probably be the death of him, one way or another. The pretty girl directly in front of him, hunching forwards to hide the burn scar down the side of her face and neck. There's a troll half-hiding behind a bigger troll, exhaustion and fear hanging around her almost tangibly. The crowd, in general, is too thin and too scarred and too scared. No-one smiles, no-one is stood casually, no-one talks to anyone. Even their breathing seems to be subdued, lest a highblood take offense to a too-loud inhale. This is not a crowd; it's a collection of single trolls, afraid to reach out to one another, afraid to connect even on the most basic of levels.

It makes him so tired, sometimes, to stand here and look at the constant reminders that the world has gone bad and some of the people with it. A world where his friends are his enemies, or just as broken as he is. Well, most of them.

His speech falters, and he looks to his left, where the Disciple sits writing and the Ψiioniic and the Dolarosa stand, watching warily for anyone who means him harm. Sometimes, he wishes he had never started this crusade of words, when the world crashes down on him and it seems like nothing he does will help anyone, where those closest to him may, no, will suffer one day for what he now tries to do. He understands the aversion to connecting, the cold dread of pain and loss that leads them to withdraw.

Then the Disciple looks up, and smiles brilliantly, a feral joyful smile. Behind her, the Ψiioniic's smile is more tentative in coming forward, still finding his place in all of this, but it is no less real or unrestrained for that. Suddenly, the world is brighter, and a flood of affection swirls in his bright-red blood, threatening to overwhelm his blood-pusher, and he smiles back. They are his, and he is theirs, and it was meant to be that way and will always be that way.

He turns his head, slightly, to smile at his guardian, and she too smiles back. Her smile is unreservedly proud of him, encouraging him to continue, so he turns back to his audience and picks up his speech with renewed vigour.

And as he talks, of a world where no-one needs to fear culling, of a world where anyone injured is taken care of, where a potentially fatal injury is not written off as a highblood's right or a lowblood's fault for clearly being in the wrong place, where relationships are not prohibited for being across the hemospectrum divide, he sees the trolls before him open up. Body language changes from crossed arms and hunched backs to something more free. The shadow-troll edges out of hiding, to stare at him with wondering eyes and although she is still exhausted and scared, he also sees hope in her eyes.

Little victories, he thinks. They will make this worthwhile, one day.


End file.
